


Witching Hour

by the_wholockian_of_the_redhair



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gen, POV Second Person, Sherlock is a nosy bugger, Wingfic, johnlock if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 18:28:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wholockian_of_the_redhair/pseuds/the_wholockian_of_the_redhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know that point in the middle of the night that moment when no one is awake? When the silence is so thick around you, like a heavy blanket has been draped over the entire world. As if there is no one else but you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Witching Hour

**Author's Note:**

> Started from a random thought I had in the middle of the night. tumblr went down, I got bored, this was born.  
> Un-beta'd because I'm lazy and can't be bothered to email it to people
> 
> Any comments or suggestions would be greatly appreciated <3

You know that point in the middle of the night that moment when no one is awake? When even you should be sleeping, but an unidentifiable force has woken you up? It’s those minutes of absolute silence. No traffic, no voices, no nocturnal animals calling to their clans. When the silence is so thick around you, like a heavy blanket has been draped over the entire world. As if there is no one else but you.

In those moments of total silence, the world shifts. Shadows cast by the pale moonlight elongate and evolve. Creatures born from dreams and nightmares slink out from their dens to feast. You lie on your stomach patiently, waiting for it to happen. It happens one night every month at this moment, as the full moon peaks. It wakes you up from your slumber so you can prepare yourself. 

There is a rustling above you. A weight on your back, on your shoulder blades. You stand up carefully and look behind you, at your back. At your wings. You stretch your muscles, unused for weeks. The window is open, ready and waiting. You jump out, wings snapping behind you as they catch the air and you take flight. You glide out, away from the buildings to join your kin. To join the Witching Hour.

You fly, unburdened by the troubles of the day, of your human life. A flock of shadow-men glide underneath you. One looks up. It waves to you, recognising you from previous nights. You wave back, smiling at the simplicity of this night life. You glide between buildings, occasionally peering in windows for brief glimpses of human forms, sleeping oblivious to the world unfolding around them.

You look down at the deserted street below. It’s the quietest this city can ever become. As you return your gaze to the stars, you catch a glimpse of something that doesn’t belong. It terrifies you. Nothing has ever disturbed this Hour. You swoop for cover, before slowly poking your head out to see the thing. It stares back at you. This scares you even more. You continue to stare at it, contemplating the best route for escape, before you realise. You recognise it. It’s a human you know from the daylight hours, from the evenings, from those wee morning hours that are too early to be day but too late to be night. 

It’s your flatmate. You warned him not to come. You told him not to follow you. He told you his secrets, after a few years you reluctantly told him yours. He would have found out anyway, deduced it. But you told him not to come. You told him it was dangerous in a way that he couldn't defend himself from. 

You dive down, catch him by his armpits, then fly as fast as you can. Back home. Back to safety. You throw your flatmate through the window, onto your bed and land beside him with a heavy thump. You will not yell at him yet. Not until morning. You don’t want to wake your long suffering landlady down stairs. 

Instead, you find your belt. You strap his hands together, wrapped around a post of your bed. He doesn't struggle. He knows he has done wrong. He lies there on your bed with his eyes closed. You sigh, then turn and fly back out the window. You will not waste the last twenty minutes of your hour for this so called genius.

Flying does not relieve your anxieties though, so you return before it is time. Your flatmate is still on your bed of course, but his eyes are open now. He watches as you sit next to him and wait. His eyes go wide as your wings disappear, but he says nothing. The Hour is over. It will not come again until the next full moon.

You untie your flatmate, the push him up and out of your room. You wish to be alone now. In the morning you will yell. Now you just need to sleep. As amazing as the flying is, it always leaves you exhausted.

\---

You wake up to the sound of violin. An apology of sorts from your flatmate. You don’t want to argue with him, but he needs to be safe. You walk slowly down the stairs slowly, then give up and go make some tea. As inhuman as you may be sometimes, you will always be British. 

You sit down in your chair with your mug. You don’t stay anything, just take small sips of the hot liquid. Your flatmate turns, eyes downcast, waiting for his reprimand. A moment passes. Another. He opens his mouth as if to speak, to explain his actions, a rarity in itself, but you hold up a hand to silence him, to save him the embarrassment. You know he was just curious, as always. Doing anything to stave of the boredom that had been creeping into his skull.

You sigh again. You know he'll go out again, no matter how many times you pick him up and tie him down. He could get out of the bonds anyway. So you make a bargain. You tell him he can watch you. Study you. Only once, but you are sure he can get the data he needs in an hour. You don’t mind giving up one night of freedom to keep him safe from the more unsavoury creatures of the moon.

His eyes light up as he snatches at your laptop sitting on the table, already planning his experiments and tests, creating room for the results in his mind palace.  
You smile to yourself as you watch him, making a mental note to remind him not to share this sacred information, though you doubt it will be needed. You trust him.


End file.
